


After Eden

by egocentrifuge



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: AI becoming sentient, M/M, Master/Servant dynamics, Mild Injury, android!wilbur, this is fully shippy so don't click if you're gonna be upset about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27362839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egocentrifuge/pseuds/egocentrifuge
Summary: At first it'd been - these things have a factory default, alright? A certain canned quality to all their conversation that'd made it difficult to forget that Wilbur wasn't a person. Schlatt had nearly died of fucking mortification when Wilbur had asked that first night if he'd be joining Schlatt in his bed, just barely stopped himself from kissing his down payment goodbye and and sending Wilbur back to Cyber Life. They'd had a talk - or rather, Schlatt had talked, and Wilbur had listened - about what Schlatt wanted from Wilbur and what he should under no circumstances offer.And that's the crux of things, isn't it? No matter how much Schlatt likes how Wilbur looks, or gets off on the disrespect, it's fake. Worse - manufactured, by Schlatt himself, totally under Schlatt's control. Call Schlatt a prude, but there's something fucked up about getting off on that.So instead Schlatt has himself a pretty boy butler whose very existence threatens to send Schlatt careening back to puberty, dick too sore to touch because he's been jerking it like a freak every chance he finds to be alone.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 49
Kudos: 263





	After Eden

**Author's Note:**

> the first of my finished nano fics. come get y'all juice, oh ye thirsty.

"You really got yourself a fucking plastic, huh." 

Schlatt looks up from his tablet to find Connor staring at Wilbur where he's materialized, towel over his arm and two beers in hand, looking like a working mom's wet dream. 

"Something to drink?" Wilbur asks, cheerful as ever, Connor's remark falling on deaf ears. "There's also ice water, bottled water, sugar free orange Fanta - "

"It's fucking _British?"_ Connor demands, swiveling to stare at Schlatt.

"Beer's fine, Wilbur, thanks," Schlatt mutters, then, "It was what was in stock, alright?" to the incredulous Connor. 

"Did you get a defective model? Why's it so fucking tall?" Connor snaps his fingers uselessly, as if Wilbur's eyes ever left his face, and Schlatt can feel his blood pressure rising. "Did they leave you in the plastic extruder too long, bucko?"

Wilbur's easy smile doesn't fade as he opens the beers, hands them each a bottle. Schlatt's glad he's already had a talk with Wilbur on rhetorical questions; a month ago Wilbur would have already chirped up with a "helpful response" about how he was built exactly to factory specifications based on the request of the customer, and that was something Connor never needed to know. The way Connor's still eyeing Wilbur is already enough to make Schlatt nervous, and sure enough:

"You're pretty," Connor tells Wilbur, standing to survey him more closely. "You a sex model?"

"Come on, Connor, Jesus Christ," Schlatt groans. Connor doesn't take his eyes from Wilbur's face, the blue of his LED.

"Answer the question, pretty boy," Connor says. Schlatt's jaw twinges as he clenches his teeth.

"Some models with my face have been equipped to be sexually compatible with humans," Wilbur says, diplomatic, unbothered. Connor drops his eyes pointedly to the front of Wilbur's slacks, then back to his face.

"Yeah, I fucking bet they have. But that wasn't my question, sweetheart. Are you, personally - what'd you name it, Schlatt?"

Schlatt doesn't answer for long enough that Wilbur's _don't let my owner look like an ass_ protocol kicks in, has him saying, voice even, "My name is Wilbur."

"You got a dick and balls, Wilbur?" Connor asks.

And as Schlatt's sitting there watching his life flash in front of his eyes, his career crashing and burning, Wilbur's LED flashes yellow before he does the most extraordinary thing.

"No," he says, mild. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. If you'd like me to call you a taxi to Eden Club, that can be arranged."

Schlatt sucks in a breath as Connor barks out a laugh.

"Okay, princess, no need to get sassy," Connor says, finally, _f_ _inally_ turning his back on Wilbur. "Figures you'd get yourself a Ken doll to boss around. It's the only way you can feel like a real man."

"Are we gonna look at this fucking contract or not?" Schlatt asks, aiming for tetchy and almost hitting it. Connor rolls his eyes but takes the tablet when Schlatt shoves it in his direction.

Schlatt's too used to Wilbur's movements not to notice when he slips silently away, but Connor's already written him into the background, doesn't even register when Wilbur returns to replace their empty bottles. It's the Belgium stuff, this time, heavier, and Schlatt almost says something to Wilbur about how neither of them have had dinner before backing off when he realizes it'll get Connor out the door quicker.

Sure enough, it's not a full hour before Connor throws down the tablet, groaning about how he has to get something to eat, fuck this, they'll finish the rest in the office.

Wilbur doesn't see them to the door. Instead it's up to Schlatt to locate Wilbur in the kitchen, bottles in hand, where Wilbur's in the middle of doing something complicated to a carrot.

"Looks good," Schlatt says dubiously. Wilbur's answering snort might just be Schlatt's imagination as he dumps the empties into the recycling.

"I'm julienning them," Wilbur says. "It allows them to be cooked enough to lose their bitterness without losing structural integrity."

Schlatt blinks. "Carrots aren't - are carrots bitter?"

Wilbur's half-smiling, serene, as he continues to slice the vegetables at a speed that makes Schlatt a bit queasy.

"Some are, especially younger carrots. It's caused by a high concentration of a volatile compound called - "

"You lied to Connor," Schlatt interrupts. The knife stops moving mid-cut. "Earlier. When he asked if you - you know."

Wilbur's LED flickers, but he's still otherwise - unnaturally so. Finally, he speaks.

"I assumed you didn't want him to know the truth," he says, and though it's inflected the same as anything he ever says, Schlatt would call it _distant._ Normally, Wilbur would look over, make eye contact to ensure an emotional connection or whatever it is his programming demands, but even though he's stopped his motor task he's still staring resolutely at the cutting board.

"Did I assume incorrectly?" 

It's Schlatt's turn to hesitate. There's something going on in his chest, a tightness Schlatt wouldn't normally be afraid of because Wilbur would be able to tell if Schlatt were going into cardiac arrest except Wilbur's not fucking _looking_ at him and that's almost better, honestly, because the alternative would be to know that it was caused by having some sort of emotion over a fucking _android -_

"No," he finally chokes out. "No, no. You were right, Wilbur. You - you did good."

Wilbur isn't human, doesn't sigh or lick his lips or breathe at all before he resumes julienning. 

"I'm not a huge fan of carrots," Schlatt says, for something to say. 

Wilbur's expression is placid when he corrects, "You don't like 'mushy' carrots," but there's something in his voice that hadn't been there when he'd so politely told Connor to go fuck himself. Schlatt's ribs ache as he wonders if it's in Wilbur's code, if it's one of the ways his AI has adapted to Schlatt's preferences. It's gotta be, right? Androids don't - they can't _feel_. Fondness is an emotion, ergo, Wilbur can't be fond.

Schlatt opens another beer, one of the Belgium ones, and retreats to his office rather than watch Wilbur and wonder. He eats there, too, working on a presentation he doesn't have to give for another two weeks until the drinks catch up to him and Schlatt abandons getting ahead in favor of a technology advancement simulation from his childhood.

Wilbur doesn't say anything, when he brings Schlatt a glass of water, but when Schlatt glances over he sees Wilbur's lips curl into a smile as he collects Schlatt's empty plate.

The carrots were fine, Schlatt guesses.

\--

He doesn't fuck the robot.

Schlatt knows what it looks like, alright. Hell, he bought the fucking thing, checked all the little boxes next to all the optional little features - or not so little, depending on owner preference. It was Schlatt who picked the face, picked the accent, picked the dick and fucking balls. There was no one else to blame for Wilbur's appearance and, hah, "hardware" except Schlatt himself.

Why then, when he paid thousands of dollars more for all the bells and whistles, did Schlatt not fuck the robot?

He doesn't fucking _know._

At first it'd been - these things have a factory default, alright? A certain canned quality to all their conversation that'd made it difficult to forget that Wilbur wasn't a person. Schlatt had nearly died of fucking mortification when Wilbur had asked that first night if he'd be joining Schlatt in his bed, just barely stopped himself from kissing his down payment goodbye and and sending Wilbur back to Cyber Life. They'd had a talk - or rather, Schlatt had talked, and Wilbur had listened - about what Schlatt wanted from Wilbur and what he should under no circumstances offer.

It'd worked. Of course it had. Wilbur was a fucking collection of zeroes and ones, he wasn't capable of being offended, feeling jilted. Schlatt gave him an order, and Wilbur followed it out - it wasn't that fucking complicated.

But the thing is, the "companion models" - a phrase so horrible Schlatt can't think it without ascribing the quotation marks - came equipped with the most advanced AI Cyber Life had to offer, and had access to codes from all sorts of fields' models to find and replace their own to better suit their owners' needs. A "Wilbur" that went to a single parent would be more nurturing than a "Wilbur" a sorority house pitched in to buy, and this Wilbur - 

Wilbur's a smartass bitch, alright, exactly like Schlatt likes 'em. Challenges Schlatt's authority, calls him on his bullshit, can be such a fucking terror sometimes that Schlatt honestly forgets WIlbur's this way because of _Schlatt._

And that's the crux of things, isn't it? No matter how much Schlatt likes how Wilbur looks, or gets off on the disrespect, it's fake. Worse - manufactured, by Schlatt himself, totally under Schlatt's control. Call Schlatt a prude, but there's something fucked up about getting off on that.

So instead Schlatt has himself a pretty boy butler whose very existence threatens to send Schlatt careening back to puberty, dick too sore to touch because he's been jerking it like a freak every chance he finds to be alone.

Schlatt's not fucking Wilbur, but it's starting to feel like Wilbur's fucking him. 

\--

"Your boy toy's outside."

"My _what?_ Excuse me?"

"Your Ken doll," Connor repeats, nose scrunching up at Schlatt's affront. "Like seven feet tall? Gopher, or something?"

"What, Wilbur? My fucking android is here? Why?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?" Connor drawls. "Probably got a message from the mothership or something. Ask it yourself, it's in the lobby."

Schlatt glances at his screen - technically, this is his lunch hour, but he'd been putting the final touches on a report due that afternoon. Still, he finds himself saving and exiting the terminal without a second thought for the fucking report, shrugging back into his suit jacket.

"If this is a fucking joke," he starts to warn Connor, but he's already wandered away.

"Motherfucker," Schlatt mutters under his breath. It's not the only expletive he says as he squeezes into the elevator amidst the rest of the corporate jockeys; he earns himself a few poisonous looks that he sends right back as his empty stomach tries to stay on the fifty-third floor.

The nice thing about Wilbur, at least, is that he's easy to pick out in a crowd. It doesn't take Schlatt more than a glance to find him tucked away on the far side of the receptionist's desk, out of place in an old windbreaker of Schlatt's that it takes him a moment to realize is even his.

"Wilbur, hey - what are you doing here, bud?"

Wilbur startles - or, blinks a few times - and swivels to look at Schlatt. Schlatt's chest constricts when the new angle reveals Wilbur's LED distress signal red. 

"Schlatt," Wilbur says, voice without inflection in the way it only gets nowadays when someone besides Schlatt can hear him. "I'm sorry, I know you're working."

"It's fine," Schlatt says, quick, taking Wilbur's elbow to steer him away. As soon as he touches Wilbur's arm, though, Wilbur jerks away with a tinny, robotic sound. Schlatt steps back, startled, and is in the middle of asking what the fuck that was when he looks down and sees for himself. 

The artificial skin on Wilbur's hand has retracted up under his sleeve, leaving what would normally be a smooth, white chassis exposed. Instead, there's black spiderwebbed up between Wilbur's fingers, his palm, and the entire arm is being held more stiffly than even the oldest models of android would consider realistic. There's blue, too - thirium, Wilbur's lifeblood. 

"Shit," Schlatt breathes. "You're hurt - what, what happened? Talk to me, Wilbur."

"There was an electrical surge," Wilbur says dispassionately. "I was interfacing with the refrigerator."

"You were - why?"

Wilbur's LED flickers momentarily. "I get lonely, when you're not home," he says, then, voice lower, "I was checking its fucking programming, Schlatt, why do you think I'd interface with a fucking fridge - "

"Okay, okay," Schlatt soothes, checking Wilbur's other hand before gently taking that shoulder. "I'm sorry. Dumb question, I get it. Are you - what do you need?"

He watches Wilbur's eyes flick around the lobby, the minute twitches in his expression to accompany the flashing of his LED.

"I," Wilbur starts, stops. He seems genuinely at a loss. "I need maintenance. I - I should have gone directly to Cyber Life. Coming here was… a mistake. I could have lost power on the way and been scrapped for parts, why - " 

"We all do crazy things under pressure," Schlatt murmurs. "You were scared. It's fine. Come on, we'll get you a cab. You're gonna be alright."

Wilbur doesn't resist, when Schlatt guides him towards the doors. Doesn't react when Schlatt activates the taxi terminal, gives the destination in a voice pinched from trying to stay calm under pressure.

What Wilbur does do, as one of the automated vehicles pulls into the loading lane, is wrap his good arm around Schlatt in a hold that it takes Schlatt a moment to realize is - a hug.

"Hey," Schlatt says, throat tight. "You're gonna be okay. They'll have you right as rain in no time."

Wilbur's expression is neutral as he steps out of the circle of Schlatt's arms, folds himself into the taxi, but his LED is still blinking red as the door slides back into place.

The car's out of sight within two seconds, but Schlatt stands there on the sidewalk staring after it until he has to clock back in.

\--

Schlatt barely makes it out of the building before he's calling Cyber Life, tie undone and wrapped around his fist like some sort of silken self defense weapon. At least it's an android that picks up, not some archaic automated system, and Schlatt's put through to a technician before he's all the way back home.

"Mr. Schlatt, you're calling about an RT4700 that came in earlier today?"

"Uh - yeah, yes. Is he - is it - you know. Will it be able to… get back to work soon?" He cringes at his own voice, the fact that he'd had to stop himself from begging for updates like a husband on the phone with a hospital.

"Cyber Life can provide you with a replacement model until your RT4700 is fully operational," the technician says detachedly, and Schlatt - he tries to keep it together, he really does, but he hasn't eaten since breakfast and his nerves are completely shot to hell.

"I don't want a fucking replacement model, I want to know that _my_ fucking android is alright. Do you know how long it's been since he should have gotten there, and I haven't gotten a single alert from your fucking company - for all I know he could have died on the way - " Schlatt sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly. "Look, what's your name?"

"TB1400," the technician says, and Schlatt has to be imagining the reproach in their voice because they're a fucking android, of course they are.

"Look, TB," Schlatt says, as calmly as he can manage. "Just tell me - is he okay?"

There's a pause, which Schlatt can only imagine is for the android to assess how volatile Schlatt stands to become, before TB1400 speaks.

"Your model has been successfully repaired, physically. Diagnostics revealed errors in its code that require further examination."

"Errors?" Schlatt repeats. "What kind of errors? They might be my fault, I - I've got kind of a fucked up sense of humor, he's ruder than your factory defaults probably want him to be."

"There are subprograms that allow rudeness at the owner's behest," TB1400 says. "Your model - "

"Wilbur," Schlatt says, tired. "Please just - I can't, with the numbers. It's Wilbur."

"Wilbur's coding has sections that don't match any in our databases." The android's voice catches awkwardly on the name, like they're at loathe to use such a human word to describe a piece of technology. Schlatt rubs his eyes.

"What does that mean? Why is that something that, that needs to be studied?"

For a moment there's nothing, not even the sound of breathing over the line, because of course androids don't breathe.

Then: "It means Wilbur is growing. Developing in a way his - its programming wasn't designed for."

Schlatt rests his forehead against his apartment door, skin prickling.

"I want him in a car on the way to me in ten minutes or I'm coming there myself, do you understand me? Make a fucking copy of his code, or whatever you need to do, but don't - don't change anything. That's - that's my property you're fucking with. I'll know."

"Of course, sir," TB1400 says. This time Schlatt is sure he's not making up the bitchiness. "Right away."

The call disconnects without a goodbye, but Schlatt hardly notices.

Wilbur had been afraid. Wilbur is changing, growing.

For the first time since making his purchase, Schlatt lets himself into his apartment and makes himself a drink.

\--

Schlatt's trying and failing to scrub his miserable attempts at dinner off the bottom of Wilbur's favorite pan - or at least, the pan Wilbur always uses - when the lights in the kitchen blip to indicate the front door opening. 

"Pause music," Schlatt barks, letting the pan fall into the soapy water and cursing when it splashes out of the sink and soaks his socks. He doesn't remember shit being this fucking _difficult_ \- god knows he made it through life before Wilbur somehow - but his pathetically oversalted pasta sauce and wet toes tell a different story. And beyond that, the music is still fucking playing. Are Schlatt's fucking electronics revolting, or something? One master and one master only - 

Billy Joel drops to a whisper as Wilbur steps through the doorway, though maybe that's just Schlatt's world narrowing down. He's in one of those standard issue Cyber Life uniforms, model and serial number glowing beneath that fucking stupid triangle, and his LED is blissfully blue as he takes in Schlatt and the mess he's made.

"You're useless," Wilbur says, but his lips are twitching. Maybe it's the two whiskey sours that Schlatt had to calm his nerves, maybe it's those few hours of having to fend for himself, maybe it's the phantom pain in Schlatt's hand, but for the first time since purchasing Wilbur, Schlatt... initiates contact. 

Wilbur is exactly 37 degrees because he was built to be and stay human temperature, and his chassis gives the same way skin and muscles would in Schlatt's arms. His embrace, when he returns the gesture, isn't too tight or too loose - the perfect amount of pressure, the Goldilocks of hugs.

A few months ago, Schlatt would have felt sick at the manufactured nature of it, the fact that it was some cookie cutter shit that some dude researched and programmed to be as optimal and inoffensive as could be. Now, though - fuck. The same things that'd been so unappealing before because of how inhuman they were - that's just tied up in Wilbur, now. 

"Your heart rate is elevated," Wilbur says, an observation, and Schlatt muffles his laughter against Wilbur's stupid, ugly, polyester jumpsuit and wonders almost hysterically if he's about to cry.

"I missed you too, buddy," he manages, finally pulling away. Schlatt can't stop himself from looking at Wilbur's hands, ensuring they're both intact. "You good? You okay? How you feeling?" Schlatt laughs again, cracked. "Sorry, stupid question. I - I'm sorry, I might've fucked up the ah, the optimal pan while you were gone - have you been talking to the stove about me? I swear to god it sabotaged my cooking - " 

"Schlatt," Wilbur says, and Schlatt imagines he can hear a smile in Wilbur's voice before there's a hand tilting Schlatt's head up and he sees there actually fucking _is._

"Wilbur," Schlatt croaks. It's Wilbur holding his chin, Wilbur's hand on Schlatt's waist, and if Schlatt had an LED he's sure it'd be fritzing the hell out right now. Wilbur's eyes roam over Schlatt's face, reading everything there is to offer. This close, Schlatt can see the mechanics around Wilbur's irises retract, the literal lens behind his pupils. 

"I remember what you told me, when I first started working for you," Wilbur says, still with that ghost of a smile. "I wasn't damaged enough to affect my memory centers."

"That's nice. That's good," Schlatt says. He wonders if Wilbur can feel Schlatt's blood pressure skyrocketing, like this. 

"I'm going to disregard your instructions," Wilbur goes on, with something not unlike relish, which only grows when he adds, "because I want to."

"You want to?" Schlatt repeats, faintly. That should - that _is_ impossible, unless - "You - you want things?"

"I do," Wilbur says, smiling fully now, and then he's kissing Schlatt. 

It's the perfect kiss. Their noses don't bump, teeth don't knock. Wilbur's mouth is warm and pliant against Schlatt's, and his hand slides around the back of Schlatt's head to cup with just the right amount of pressure. When Schlatt parts his lips, Cyber Life's most lifelike tongue yet licks into his mouth, slick with what Schlatt can never forget is called "bio-lubricant." _Tasteless, odorless, and completely non-toxic,_ the pamphlets had read; Schlatt can't contain his helpless little giggle. 

"What?" Wilbur murmurs - another thing Schlatt had told him not to do, that fucking bedroom voice - and Schlatt tries to contain himself.

"What would the refrigerator think," he says. "After you interfaced with it and everything - "

"Shut up," Wilbur says, though he's positively beaming now. "I don't like your jokes. You're not funny."

"You're _lying,"_ Schlatt says, aware he's smiling, too. "Is that when this started? When you fucking dunked on Connor? I knew you were being squirrely, I fucking _knew_ it - "

Wilbur effectively puts a stop to the rest of Schlatt's gloating by picking him up in one smooth motion that makes Schlatt - okay, hard, yes, but he's man enough to admit he screams a little. It earns him a laugh muffled by the way Schlatt has both arms and legs wrapped tight around Wilbur as the android carries him without apparent effort through his apartment. 

"How much can you bench?" Schlatt finds himself babbling. "Like what, 100? Easy, right - "

"My lifting capacity is 500 kilograms," Wilbur says, amused. "It was in my literature, Schlatt. Has your memory center received a trauma recently?"

"Must have been while I was fisting the fridge - " Schlatt breaks off to yelp as he's tossed unceremoniously on what turns out to be his bed.

"How'd the fuck you get us in here? I programmed the lock to keep you out."

"I can repair it," Wilbur says serenely, and then he's on Schlatt, hands sliding up his chest, divesting him of his shirt in one smooth motion that would have been a lot smoother had Schlatt and his human reflexes not been involved. Still, Schlatt's on fire, touching every part of Wilbur he can reach and not moving him an inch in all his enthusiasm. 

"Take this shit off," he demands, tugging at the Cyber Life uniform. "Fucking plastic bullshit - tear it off, shit, we'll fucking burn it - "

"It would produce toxic fumes, we're not burning it," Wilbur chides, but sits back on his knees and tears the jacket down the middle anyways. A terrible shock of want ricochets through Schlatt, leaves him squirming in its wake.

Wilbur is - flawless. Like, literally without flaw, smooth skin stretched across manufactured muscles. Schlatt traces the shape of one medical diagram grade nipple, breathless.

"Does your skin have like, sensory receptors?" he asks. 

"It's purely cosmetic," Wilbur says, gazing down at Schlatt, letting him touch. "But I can feel you. My chassis registers the pressure, even the trace amounts of electricity from your body."

"But you'd feel more," Schlatt guesses. "Without - without the skin."

"Yes."

Schlatt follows Wilbur, sits up to get his hands on Wilbur's waist, is helpless to stop himself from pressing a chaste kiss to Wilbur's cheek.

"Take it off, then," he requests, uncertain. "I - I know you're an android, alright, I don't care."

Wilbur turns his head to catch Schlatt in another devastating kiss, and Schlatt takes it to mean he's being ignored until, with a strange little sound, Wilbur's lips are suddenly smooth against Schlatt's. It startles a moan from him, allowing Wilbur to lick into his mouth again, and Schlatt's so distracted by this development that he doesn't register the change in Wilbur's palms as they run down Schlatt's spine. He lets himself be laid down, trusting Wilbur to handle the mechanics of movement while his hands wander across Wilbur's chest. The skin retracts to follow Schlatt's roaming touch, which is unlike anything Schlatt's ever felt, but then - that's just Wilbur.

"Here," Wilbur whispers, when he's braced over Schlatt and can free a hand up to reach for one of Schlatt's. Now that they're not kissing, Schlatt can make out the white around Wilbur's mouth, on his palm and fingers. It's hard not to stare, but it's not - where Schlatt would have expected fear or disgust, all he feels is a soft sort of wonder. It only grows when Wilbur presses his naked hand flat against Schlatt's and Schlatt jumps at the sudden feel of static electricity where they're touching. Lights flare across Wilbur's fingers; as Schlatt watches, Wilbur's eyes close.

"What is that?" Schlatt asks, hoarse. "Are you interfacing with me? Does that fucking work?" He doesn't do a good job of keeping the hope from his voice, and Wilbur's eyebrows tilt in something akin to apology. 

"Not like it would with another android," he admits. "But it still feels…" Wilbur shifts until he can hold Schlatt's forearm delicately, like how Schlatt's seen him transfer information with other models. His LED flashes blue; Schlatt wishes so fervently his chest aches that he could reach back in whatever way it is Wilbur's reaching for him. 

"I like it," Wilbur finishes softly. His eyes open again, and he fixes Schlatt with a smile that seems somehow sweeter for the lack of skin on the lower half of his face. "I like you," he adds, like it's something wondrous.

"It'd be awkward if you didn't," Schlatt manages, then, wretched, "I like you too, Wilbur."

"I know," Wilbur says, the bastard, ducking his head down to trace maddening patterns on Schlatt's neck with that damnable tongue. "I've been evaluating your hormone levels for some time, and though oxytocin isn't always a reliable judge - "

"I take it back," Schlatt gasps, arching up into Wilbur's touch. "You're a stupid virgo and I hate you."

"Do androids get assigned astrological signs based on when they were created?" Wilbur asks; Schlatt can feel his fucking smile. "Virgo does seem unusually fitting. They're said to be logical, practical, and systematic." 

"Fucking infuriating, is what you are," Schlatt chokes out. Wilbur is applying his mouth logically, practically, and systematically to Schlatt's nipple.

"Perhaps," Wilbur agrees, mild. "I'm still new to emotions, but I would argue you, too, are _fucking_ infuriating." 

He says the curse like it's a benediction; Schlatt shudders as Wilbur works his way lower still.

"You're good, right?" Schlatt asks before he realizes he's worried about the answer. Wilbur pauses, raising his head to look at Schlatt's expression, and Schlatt obligingly looks down to give Wilbur his looked-for eye contact.

"How do you mean?"

"That tech they put me on the line with - TB9000 or something - they didn't seem too happy to let you go with faulty coding, or whatever." Schlatt reaches down to run his hand through Wilbur's hair carefully, tenderly. "They didn't - I don't know. Subject you to any invasive tests, or something."

Wilbur's chassis rearranges itself into a smile. "Technoblade?" he asks, then at Schlatt's baffled look, "'TB1400'. They're a repair technician within Cyber Life, another deviant." The word registers vaguely, something on the news, but Wilbur's already going on. "They were trying to buy me time. Androids interface much more slowly over encrypted networks, and we were in Cyber Life's warehouse at the time."

"Who were you interfacing with?" Schlatt asks, struggling to keep it unaffected. He's not jealous of another android, that would be fucking ridiculous. Wilbur breaks eye contact to kiss Schlatt's stomach.

"I can't tell you that," he says, apologetic. "But he was able to give me more information on my… development, and offer reassurance that I wasn't alone."

"Oh," Schlatt says. "That's, that's good. I guess." 

"Yes," Wilbur agrees. "On which note, there are things I want." 

The businesslike tone in which Wilbur says it makes Schlatt wonder if this is going to be at all related to their current positions, but Wilbur's surprised him before.

"Okay, hit me."

Wilbur drops another kiss, lower this time. "Free travel during the day," he murmurs. "Funds to spend on things I desire." He flicks his eyes up to Schlatt, who feels an unexpected relief crash into him. 

"Wilbur," he says, soft and embarrassingly sincere. "Anything, anything you want. Fuck, you can take your ownership papers - I haven't paid it off in full yet, but it - you should have them."

A low, mechanical hum kicks up that vibrates through Schlatt's belly, and he's just about to risk another joke about the kitchen appliances when Wilbur speaks again.

"I want to make you come," he challenges - and it is a challenge, his eye contact too searing to be anything but as he echoes the offer Schlatt had turned down so many months ago. Schlatt sucks in a breath, head spinning.

"Okay," he chokes out. "If you want. That's - okay."

Wilbur does. And it is. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you're going to comment about how rpf shipping is wrong, please consider that i've already published almost 200k of it on this ao3 account alone ❤❤❤


End file.
